Friends IV

I was in a fucking delirium in June 2023, and it lasted for months. I mention these dates because they’re crucial to the timeline of events. I remember visiting Natalie in the hospital—I can’t recall the exact date, but it was during her radiation treatment, when her neck disconnected from her spine. She had major surgery at Toronto Western sometime in 2023. That whole fucking year is a blur for me.

I was at the hospital, and so was her husband. Now that I think about it, he was unusually quiet with me. Natalie was completely Hydromorphoned up—like, button-in-hand level. Actually, it was in Martin’s—her husband’s—hand, and he was juicing it up. Her eyes were rolling in and out, but not enough to be unaware of what he was doing. She said, “I’m in a lot of pain. I have this button here—actually, Martin has it, and he keeps pushing it.”

Within 15 minutes of my arrival, her eyes rolled closed, and she was out. I wasn’t sure if he was doing it to keep her quiet, if he wanted her to nod off while I was there, or if he was hitting the button every 30 seconds to ease her pain. I’d like to think it was the latter.

I was sitting in a chair, my back to the window, when Blair came walking down the hallway and into the room. She saw me and said, “Oh, hi,” as if it were a surprise to see me—even though she had been looking right at me as she walked toward the room. The vibes were way off. I could feel something wasn’t right the second I laid eyes on her.

Let me tell you something—I don’t think anyone knows Blair as well as I do! I can tell when she’s high and when she’s lying—on the fucking spot. Blair has so many tells, and I know every single one! So when she starts a conversation with 'Oh' or 'Oh, oh,' I already know there’s some bullshit attached. Just like that day on the phone when I asked about the victim’s benefit—”Oh, oh…"

Something happened between the day of Blair’s son’s memorial and that day at the hospital—somewhere between June and October/November.

I have no fucking clue what, but it was more than just me seeing the predator who violated me that night or almost getting punched out by a crackhead. Blair was cold toward me. I chalked it up to her son’s death and her best friend being sick. She wasn’t doing well—understandably—but there was more to it than that. I just didn’t know what. I still don’t. I have my suspicions, but that’s all they’ll ever be.

January came around, and Natalie was healing—or at least, that’s what I was told. Between January 2024 and May, Natalie and I spoke often, mostly through text.

Listen, it was a really fucked-up situation—awful actually. I was trying to get myself together mentally while physically falling apart, and my friend was ultimately dying. 

I mostly asked her about herself, even though I was a mess. I wasn’t about to unload my trauma or troubles on her while she was in that state, so our conversations usually veered toward material things—she’d tell me about the deals she found on high-end gear, and we’d send pictures back and forth.

Neither of us was in great shape, and the whole thing was so awkward. I don’t think we ever really said what we wanted to say to each other—except at the end of every conversation, which always ended with, “I love you.”

By January, Blair, Molly, and Natalie all agreed—she was doing much better. So, I decided to create a group chat and send out an invite for the four of us to spend a night together up at Blue Mountain. I sent a long, happy text—an invitation.

Blair responded right away: "Sounds good." Natalie was in too—amped, actually—and that was exactly what I had hoped for. We had talked about a girls' weekend for years, but it never happened. I wanted it to happen. I almost died, and that changed me and nobody knew how much time Natalie had. I wanted this. Blair did too. Or so I thought.

The text message went out at the beginning of January. The night booked for Blue Mountain was in the third week of January. We had this group message going, and one of us would randomly comment in it about being excited and whatnot—usually Natalie or me.

I was trying to decipher whether or not they were texting behind my back—you know that vibe when two people take the conversation outside the group, all sneaky and two-faced. I knew something was off when I saw Blair in the hospital, but I couldn’t pin it down. Natalie was too excited, and Molly was genuinely going with the flow. The only one I got fucked-up vibes from was Blair. Blair is sneaky as fuck, deceitful. She'd lie to anyone, anytime, if it was to save or benefit her own ass. That’s just who she is.

One day, Blair messaged the group saying she needed the sound of the ocean to sleep, and that the trip probably wasn’t a good idea for her. Molly and I both replied, "I love the sound of the ocean—no problem, even better!" Excuse: shut down.

Blair started messaging me daily, telling me how Natalie was deteriorating. But I was talking to Natalie herself—she was beyond excited for the trip. So was Molly. And I knew Molly and Natalie saw each other all the time; they were practically neighbors. If Natalie was really that bad, why wasn’t Molly saying anything? Why was she just as excited as Natalie and me?

Natalie and I were texting every other day, staying in touch and getting more excited as the trip to Blue Mountain approached. We were both looking forward to a fun night away—I even printed out a small itinerary with our names on it. Soak in the hot tub, walk the village, shop, and dine. One night. I was going to roll up the itineraries into scrolls, tie them with a ribbon, and give each of us one as a keepsake from the girls’ trip we finally managed to make happen. We even sorted out who was going to drive up with whom. 

A couple of days before the trip, Blair told me that Natalie couldn’t make it—she wanted to go badly but wasn’t well enough to go, she couldn’t even stand up. I was like, shit. Then Blair said, “She’s not gonna be happy about it being canceled at all, so I’m gonna tell her I have a doctor’s appointment I can’t get out of.” That she’d take the hit for cancelling.

Blair sent the text, and I canceled the reservations. I really didn’t know what to believe or think at that time with Blair’s sketchy behaviour. I certainly didn’t think there was anything wrong between me and the girls, especially with Molly and Natalie’s excited responses in the group text. So, the trip was canceled, and we settled on a movie and dinner for one evening instead.

All that time, from the memorial in June 2023 all the way to January 2024, I had only seen Natalie twice—at the memorial and at the hospital and then a third time at movie night.

We had a day picked, and honestly, we didn’t care what movie we were going to see. It wasn’t about the movie; we just wanted to be together, so we picked something random. Blair drove me out there, talking anxiously the whole way—fucked-up vibes. When we pulled up to the theater, she took out some sage and burned it, muttering a little prayer.

Like, why the fuck are you burning sage right now—what are you praying for in this particular moment, Blair??? Hmmmm. I’ve been in the car with her so many times, and I never seen her do that before.

We all hugged and said hello. It was pretty quiet between all four of us. I mean, how awkward—my friend was dying, and I just escaped death myself. Nobody was being honest with each other.

When Blair took me up to see Natalie in January 2023 before we got out of the car she told me not to mention anything about my heart surgery or my situation. So I was not allowed to talk about my heart surgery, my situation, or anything that was going on with me because Blair said it would just upset Natalie. And I didn’t. I didn’t even consider talking about it. Her condition clearly took precedence over mine. We saw the movie, had dinner, and then we all went our separate ways. Martin picked up Natalie. 

Natalie was happy to see me, I felt it, just as she did. It was Blair who was nervous, concerned about us all coming together as a group. Before she brought out the sage, she even said, “Girl, I just want to get this over with!” Why, Blair? Why?

Everything felt awkward as fuck, and that was the last time I saw Natalie. We stayed in touch though. Every so often, I’d get a “Hope you’re good, love you” text from Molly—but it was Blair who checked in the most, always with the same bullshit, template text.

Then Mother’s Day came around. Kayla reached out to me in April, but everything fell apart on Mother’s Day. I was crushed—again. I never heard from any of them that day. The only person I spoke to was Annissa. I mentioned something like, “Nice Mother’s Day, eh? Have you seen my daughter’s post?” Her response was short and simple, saying it wasn’t looking good for her.

I tried bringing up the Mother’s Day post to Blair. She started with that “Oh, oh, oh” staggering bullshit again and quickly changed the subject, cutting the conversation short. I wasn’t about her, she had zero interest. I knew, deep down, they were gossiping about it.

Blair and Natalie would have these long-ass phone conversations, full of gossip. Granted, Kayla’s Mother’s Day post was the talk of the town. I’m sure it made every shitty mother feel better about themselves. It was no secret that Natalie loved talking on the phone—shit, I used to stay on the phone with her for hours back in the day myself. But instead of any of them checking in on me, they just gossiped about me.

In May, I was dealing with the heartache—pain from Kayla, once again. It was like a scab being ripped open. I was just beginning to figure out my stomach issues, and after recovering from that, I actually started to feel happy again. But I didn’t want to talk to either of them—or anyone, really—for a while. I was hurt, angry, and needed space.

There was a lot of pressure on me to go visit her in her final days, as she lay there surrounded by people saying their goodbyes. Her whole family was there, along with her husband’s family at her bedside. All of her friends came through—everyone but me.

I had felt the coldness from Blair and Molly long before it reached that point. Molly had stopped texting me, and Blair, having just lost her firstborn son, now faced with her friend dying. I gave her space and grace. But with the coldness and the fucked-up vibes, there was no way I was going to ask Blair for a ride out there. I had hoped an offer would come my way, but it never did.

I never saw Natalie in her last few days, which was right around the time my mammogram came back showing something was wrong with my right breast implant. I spent weeks in darkness, by myself, just trying to get in to see the plastic surgeon. And if I’m being honest, by then, it had finally sunk in—not one of my so-called friends came to check on me, and I went through hell! They had no idea what I was going through. Nobody asked. Nobody cared. I wasn’t in their sights at all, not even in their peripherals.

I sent Natalie a long text during that time, apologizing for my absence and telling her that I loved her. Whether she ever got it, I’ll never know. Natalie passed away on July 27th, 2024. I cried. Not right away, I don’t know when it hit me. When it did, it hit me hard, and I had a good, long cry.

It was an unfortunate time for both Natalie and me, especially as a friend trying to support each other. It was so fucked-up.

I don’t have any regrets. She was loved immensely, and in her last days, throughout her illness, she was constantly surrounded by her family, which consisted of many people.

I didn’t want to see her like that—not at all. Seeing her hooked up in the hospital that one time was tough enough.

I went through some deep, deep spiritual stuff, and Natalie was very much in tune with the spirits—her death was not the end of us. Maybe on Earth and in human form, but she’s always with me. I speak to her often, and I can feel her around me. I know she understood. Whether the people around me did or not, didn’t matter.

A few weeks after she passed, I went to the grocery store up the street one early Tuesday morning. As soon as I walked in with my cart, Blair was there. She saw me right away, walked away from her cart, held out her arms, and said, “Come here, girl, give me a hug.”

She seemed to be well, holding it all together. We hugged, then both carried on with our shopping. I was only grabbing a few things; she had a full cart. We both got to the checkout at the same time. I saw her two belts down from me. I could see her looking up at me every so often, and I could hear her making small talk with the cashier, packing up her bags very slowly. It was awkward as fuck.

I picked up the pace. I wanted to get my shit and get the fuck out of there. I don’t drive. I was calling an Uber. I’m an Uber girl. I ain’t waiting on nothing or nobody. When I wanna get somewhere, I call an Uber. I wasn’t begging no ride from Blair.

She was going slow as fuck because she didn’t want to walk out the door at the same time as me and feel obligated to offer me a ride home—which is just down the street from her—or feel awkward for not offering me a ride. After her big “Come here, girl, give me a hug” surface-level bullshit! I felt it like a sickness in my gut.

She didn’t want to offer me a ride home, and she didn’t want to feel obligated to have to drive me home. Nice fucking friend, eh! 

After all the shit I’d been through the past 18 months—my surgery, the mental fuckery—all of it—and there was my friend literally trying to deke me out in the grocery store so she didn’t have to fucking offer me a ride home. What happened to “Girl, come here, give me a hug?”

Mid-June to mid-August 2023, I was going through my own Lorazepam, lump, diagnosis shit that seemed to be irrelevant. Natalie’s funeral was in August. Blair called me and told me that she had room for one more going up to the funeral and asked if I wanted to go up with her. Of course I did!

The day of the funeral, Blair made it a point to tell me, “Natalie told me to tell you that she loved you and wanted you here. And I thought about it and realized I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t offer to take you up.”

Huh? What the fuck does that even mean?

I didn’t quite absorb what she said. I didn’t question it at the time. I had my own shit going on in my head—my own fucking health crisis that I was battling alone.

I didn’t wear all black. I chose something chic—boho style. The first person I saw was Karica. She gave me a big hug, complimented my outfit, and said she was so glad I dressed that way because her mother would’ve loved it.

There were lots of familiar faces from the past—people who seemed to know me more than I knew them. I walked in, looked around, and then I saw Marcus, Molly’s husband. I walked over, slid in beside him in the church, and greeted him with a big “Hiiii!”

He looked at me like I stank of shit.

At Blair’s son’s memorial, he had welcomed me with open arms. But in August 2024? It was the complete opposite.

People were looking at me sideways. And not for one second did I think anyone was upset with me—angry with me—or that I had ever been the topic of some negative conversation. Why would anyone be mad at me?

I was recovering from open fucking heart surgery, for fuck’s sake. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should’ve been me!

The funeral commenced. It was a very traditional and lovely service. When it was all done, I was outside, and there was a box of pictures. I actually said to Lauralee, one of Natalie’s daughters “Girl, all those pictures, and you couldn’t find one of me with your mom after thirty years?”

Whoever organized that funeral had literally five or maybe six pictures rotating on the screen—the same pictures of the same people over and over.

Yes, I did ask, “Where was my picture?” Thirty years of friendship! I felt a way. Kelly and I were both shocked that there wasn’t a single picture of either of us anywhere. So much history together—just erased.

I was outside, standing beside Karica having an in-depth conversation with her. I think I may have even mentioned my surgery because, well, it was what I was going through—it did fucking happen—which would explain the look on her face.

I realize now that she was staring at me blankly, blinking.

It’s not like I went on and on about myself, but it was a big fucking deal for me. And yet, I wasn’t allowed to talk about my surgery or my health situation to anyone in that friend group except Kelly—out of respect and for the protection of Natalie.

It was so fucked up. All the way fucked up. All of it.

And in recognition of all that pain—the hurt of being ignored, rejected, and abandoned, being told to basically stuff my heart trauma down by the people I considered family, my lifelong friends—I know now that is something I’ll never get over.

The whole day felt off. Thank God Kelly was there—a familiar, caring, friendly face.

Molly’s husband, Marcus, was acting strange with me, but Molly wasn’t. She was her happy, go-lucky self, bouncing all over the place. At one point, I even commented to her about the tattoos they got years ago—the sun, moon, and stars—and asked if she knew that I had the same fucking tattoos across my finger. I showed her.

She was like— “No! Oh my God, you have to color the moon in red, and then we’ll all be matching!” What in the actual fuck? Molly didn’t know about my tattoo, but 10-to-1, Blair did! They all got a tattoo. I was explicitly excluded from that—and the whole ‘Sisters for Life’ communion. And there was my friend, telling me to join in on the fun that I had already been shut out of. It felt desecrating.

I thought it was the oddest and most inappropriate thing to say, but in hindsight—I don’t think Molly saw it that way at all. She probably didn’t think it was out of line at all.

I’m guessing she had no idea about Blair’s evil, manipulative intentions toward me over the years. Maybe she was oblivious to it all—especially when it came to the three of them getting the sun, moon, and stars tattoos.

There’s a part of me that wants to believe that. But then why was her man acting so fucked up around me? Was she being two-faced? Words were definitely spoken.

I loved Molly and her family. I lived with her and her brother for more than a year, for fuck’s sake! I spoke at her mother’s funeral! I never did one fucking thing to hurt or betray her. Never.

The only thing I can think of is that she—they—were all upset with me for not being around more during Natalie’s illness. Which is all the way fucked up because while she was battling cancer with her entire family around her, I was recovering from open fucking heart surgery with multiple complications—solo. Not to mention the unraveling of my PTSD. My mental state.

It wasn’t some slight case of anxiety, for fuck’s sake—what I went through mentally was un-fucking-real! And yet, I was totally disregarded.

I was picking up on all kinds of fucked-up vibes that day. The kids were standoffish with me, but I just assumed everyone was grieving. Mourning.

I did have a brief conversation with Tayline—Natalie’s other daughter. Watching her was like watching Natalie all over again. Her gestures. Her looks. Her movements. Even her body and face were the spitting image of her mother.

We were outside. The whole event was outdoors on a beautiful, sunny day. I could feel Natalie there.

At one point, I was sitting in a group beside Blair and her boyfriend when I overheard their conversation. It was hard not to. And it was disturbing, to say the least.

It reminded me of the way my mother spoke to Herbie, my stepdad. She talked down to him—rude, bossy, mean—loudly dictating exactly what he was going to do and how he was going to do it. The whole performance came with attitude, exaggerated hand gestures, and a face full of disrespect—knowing full well everyone could hear her emasculate him.

He sat there, quiet as fuck, embarrassed, trying to sink down into his fold-up lawn chair—maybe even into the ground. It disgusted me. I was embarrassed for him. And in that moment, I saw Blair for exactly who—and what—she was. The same person she had always been. It was like her skin peeled away, and right before my eyes, she transformed into a gargoyle.

Everyone had tiptoed around Blair for years—her flip-flopping “sobriety vs. relapsing” bullshit. Ya, ya, we all have a past—we all have a story. But that doesn’t give you the right to shit on and deceive people. Nothing had changed with Blair.

I believe she did get clean once—got her shit together once—but it didn’t last. There were too many fucked-up sentiments throughout the years. Too many things that didn’t match the behavior of a recovering addict or someone truly on a healing journey.

For example—just last week, she posted a picture of me and my cousin in her old, off-and-on crack house. On her very contradictory, very public, attention-seeking Facebook page. A picture of me passing him a joint—early 2000s. And the caption?

"Paramount (my house) was the shit. My place was that before party and after party and early early morning, Parties"—complete with that stupid tee-hee emoji, the one with a hand covering the mouth in a big grin.

In what world is that the behavior of a recovering addict who has walked the healing path and reformed themselves into some kind of healer? Not one I'm familiar with. 

And why the fuck is Blair posting a picture of me and my cousin in the first fucking place?! Especially since I haven’t spoken a single word to her since August 2024.

I’m not out to get anybody. I’m not trying to defame anyone’s character. Looks to me like she’s doing a damn good job of that all by herself.

The funeral ended, and Blair dropped me off at home.

That evening, I DM’d Karica. We had a long conversation—about her mom, about how sorry I was for not being there more, and a little about what I was going through. I was trying to get some understanding. We even took a stroll down memory lane. I told her I loved her and always would.

The next morning, I woke up to a huge message from Karica in my Instagram DMs. How dare I ask her or her siblings why there wasn’t a picture of me and her mother together?! That if I had been around in the last ten years, maybe there would’ve been!

And that was just part of it.

Meanwhile, all the pictures they collected were from Facebook. I wasn’t even on fucking Facebook anymore! I deactivated my account in 2020! Everybody and this Facebook shit. Faaaak!

Her message was long, hurtful, and disrespectful, to say the least.

I immediately messaged Blair:

“What the fuck is Karica going through, sending me a big-ass nasty message like that?!”

Blair’s reply, "Oh, oh—huh? What!? I don’t know what you’re talking about." Liar. "I’m just heading out the door to run errands. I’ll call you later when I get home." No call later.

The way she refused to advocate for me—the way she shut down—made one thing clear: she was protecting the predator-junky who violated me. Someone she knew all too well.

The backing out of Blue Mountain. The sage burned in the car before we got out to meet Molly and Natalie. The reluctance of the four of us coming together as a group. The constant template text messages—that was her guilt! For what? Only she knows.

Telling me she had to bring me to the funeral or she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself. The “give me a hug” bullshit. Then going out of her way to avoid me in the grocery store.

All of Blair's fucked-up behaviors started piecing themselves together in my mind. She isn’t just two-faced—she’s multi-faced. And I’ve seen em’ all!

The next morning, I messaged Blair. I had been up most of the night trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. What had been going on. And she sloughed me off again. "I’ll call you later."

I told her—”No need to call me later. I figured it out. You guys all have a fucking problem with me. That I didn’t show up for Natalie in her last few days. Meanwhile, not one of you showed up for me. And I was OK with it. I never said one fucking word about it. But now you all have a fucking problem with me—because I was recovering, taking care of myself—by my fucking self?! Fuck you! You did this! You took away from me whatever family I had left. You did that!” Once I hit that last bit—I cried. Hard.

I don’t even think that was the origin of the issue with Blair to tell the truth. The real problem? She twisted the narrative. Something had been building up. Something had been going on behind my back. I felt it, but I just didn’t know what. That’s why she kept texting me so often—to suss out whether I had caught on or not. Meanwhile, she was plotting against me the whole fucking time.

Then she sent me this, "I will not respond to this, I will not apologize, and I will not explain myself. I have groceries to drop off for several people. I’m gonna go about my day. You have yourself a wonderful day." By the time I read her message, I was already cried out. That was the end of Blair for me. Bye.

Karica blocked me on Instagram. But I still had Tayline there, and somehow, that gave me comfort.

September 20th rolled around—my birthday. Blair sent me a text. It was a GIF. "Happy Birthday"—with a monkey sitting there, banging cymbals together. Now, I don’t know about you, but whenever I type “Happy Birthday” into a GIF app, I get balloons, cakes, butterflies—the usual shit. But Blair? She went searching for a monkey banging cymbals.

I don’t know what the fuck that was all about, because there was only one circus monkey around at that time. And it sure as fuck wasn’t me. I looked at it. Shook my head. Laughed. “Hahaha so funny!” Put the bitch on block.

I don’t know what little seeds Blair had been planting—since the memorial, or maybe even since she accused me of “abandoning” her when she had that stomach surgery. Surgery I was supposed to know about from watching her Facebook page.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t even know why. And I don’t fucking care. What happened, happened. But the sinister shit that went on behind the scenes—that never should have happened.

Someone from the hood passed away in December. Blair was there, at the funeral. She was in a conversation when my name came up—her response? "Oh, ya, Jeannette and I are on the outs right now." I laughed to myself. “We’re on the outs, are we? Hahaha.”

Little does she know—she is as dead to me as my past life.

You might not be able to get over something, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get past it.

This is a story of my pain. The damage. The hurt inflicted on me by this friend group—at the hands of one person. The way I was treated. The way I was mistreated. It wounded my soul.

I pray that no one, in their greatest time of need, ever has to endure the betrayal, rejection, and abandonment I faced—on top of whatever hardship had already brought them to their lowest.

Because that concoction right there—I assure you—is not for the weak.

The End